~
In the days of Jupiter
during the age of
lovely intimate things

the abundant rain giving life
to a lactating mother

bloodletting
cloudburst

her magic ocean
and incipient seabright moon
together at the center of creation
~

Standing on the edge
of all my possibilities
I discover each day new ways to fly
And new ways to fall
I stumble against myself
On the way to endless beauty
I swimm gently in a see of love
like I've never seen before
Wondering again and again
Who am I now?

I am a mother
The sum of all I've ever been
The starting point of all I'll ever become

Throughout the process
My body takes a hit
I grip my thighs, look into my eyes
I don’t recognise it one bit

I grab my loose stomach and
Flinch at the tender touch
I run my fingers slowly through my hair
It’s too fragile for a brush

Milk soaked shirts and
Blood stained shorts
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried
Just by exploring my thoughts

They keep pestering me over and over
“How do you feel?
There are resources to make you feel okay”
I tell them “I ’m just trying to survive the day”

Throughout the process
My mind takes a hit
I grip onto my mind, my thoughts send shivers down my spine
I don’t recognise myself one bit

A tremble begins to settle on seething skin
She is a maker of parasitical kin
It does not consume like a dancing fire
But it amplifies with a vision of curdling desire
Just like a mother, it grows like a molding seed
A miracle of the asexual spirit in a world of greed
Abrupt in nature, beloved by its own flesh and blood
It left an intangible mark inscribed on her soul in disguise of a hunch
A precautionary tale serves a special prevention of the ugly occurrence
What a marvelous delight it becomes when it reverts as a guide, full of opulence
But not in a sense of monetary value, rather a calculated demise

How does one understand a raw creation of wrath?
What will she become after venturing the thorny path?
Does an inquiry halts her progress in activating fury?
Is there an object of her ire that requires a narrative of her mutiny?
Why does the poison never spread like death in a rush?
Can she possibly raise an army to march with an uncontrollable urge of violence?
When will she endure the thinning of her lips to match the peace of a deafening silence?
Is there a warning to keep herself intact for the coming apocalyptic days?
Will it save the dormant history of her being through enactment of saving face?
The question remains unanswered, but the fulfillment of the instrumental vengeance shall prevail

The inappropriate conception is almost complete to its term
A note emerges from an acidic confinement for the preparation of a womanly stern
This clump of a girl is not a shameful creation for the sake of tragedy
If anything, the child's fulfilling rage will cleanse her ancestors as a token of remedy
There is no reminder of a continuing paternity names on her birth
No need for prophetic visions as she strikes down the Earth
An abundant offerings on her behalf shall never satisfy her
As the melting iron starts to sizzle the plumper skin, the blinding nostalgia of rage tastes better
She has no patience for warnings to initiate an appropriate plan
The hour of her sustainable war has begun